


La Croix blanche / The White Cross

by ClassicalOboist



Category: 20th Century CE RPF, First world war - Fandom, French History RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Great War - Fandom, World War I - Fandom
Genre: Angst, First World War, Gen, M/M, Original Fiction, World War I, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 05:19:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9163882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicalOboist/pseuds/ClassicalOboist
Summary: 1914. The Lacroix brothers are conscripted into the First World War. Philippe is a skilled lieutenant; Armand is a pacifist musician. Guided by the advice of his brother, Armand discovers modern warfare with sheer horror but one support; the men he will meet in his journey. They are all artists. They all think that art can be strong enough to stop the madness of a war. What harm could come from simple drawings and songs?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I have to thank my friend for lending me this account - I was definitely too lazy to ask for an invitation, mind you. Maybe I will move this story to my new account, one day.  
> Anyway, here is the first draft of a WW1 novel I am writing. First draft means that, by the end of the story, I will probably be unsatisfied with a lot of stuff and the published, finished version will be a lot more different. You can consider this as a prototype, I suppose?  
> I am conscious that, despite the centenary, not a lot of people are interested in the First World War, but I have studied for so long that I think that there are things that must not be forgotten, such as the martyrdom of the men who said 'NO!' to mass murder.  
> Apart from the angst, I think that this is a nice story to read altogether, about art in the Great War mainly - I let you discover this work and I hope that you will appreciate it.  
> This work is originally in French - please keep that in mind. There will be some untranslated terms, and some badly translated sentences. I wish I could be completely fluent in English!  
> Enjoy!  
> The author
> 
> (Notes for historical references are to be read at the end of the chapter.)

**Prologue**

The summer of 1914 was characterized by a stifling heat, in such a way that the Parisians would lock themselves up in their shuttered flats, plunging into an oppressive darkness and heat. Among these apartments, the Lacroix family. It is a beautiful house, ornamented, colored, carved sometimes. The libraries are well furnished, and there are remarkable paintings hanging on the walls from one room to another. Looking out the window, a few floors below, a garden inspired by the green spaces of Paris Haussmann. In the living room, a piano a few decades old. On the edge of the piano, a vase filled with blue and red flowers. And at the other end of the dwelling was Armand Lacroix. He was a young man with fine and beautiful features who, having just returned from his work, was endeavoring, for once, to have a serious and important expression.

 

"Philippe, I heard a very surprising rumor in the corridors of the Opera.

\- A rumor in the corridors of the Opera? So it must be true!

\- Are you ever serious, sometimes?

\- I am a very serious man. Besides, I was working until you came to disturb me."

 

Pen and ink at hand, Philippe could only smile at the sight of his brother, a young pianist dressed in a three-piece suit still too wide for his frail morphology. Armand sat down in front of the elder, frowning.

 

"Finally, will you listen...

\- Then what rumor is heard at the Opera these days? The old conductor almost fainted while preparing coffee? A ghost lurks behind the scenes? Or did you speak with great passion to your bored comrades of your muse, Jean Jaurès?

\- Stop making fun of me. This is a rumor you must have heard about, since it concerns the army.

\- Well ! Stop digressing, and talk.

\- It appears that France will really declare war on Germany."

 

And there, under the distraught gaze of the young musician, Philippe burst out laughing. And it was a peculiar vision: this officer of the army, whose face was indeed severe and serious, adorned with sideburns as fashion no longer wanted, was cheerfully laughing at the youngest.

 

"Armand, you are an unfortunate fool! Where have you been in those recent years? Did you drink too much Absinthe or did Fauré's scores force you to shut yourself up in your room? Yes, we are going to declare war on the Germans! It was absolutely obvious. Here, I am disappointed: I thought that you loved Jaurès.

\- I adore Jaurès!

\- Then you have no excuse!"

\- Philippe, listen to me..."

 

As the laughter had fallen back, there was for some seconds a strange silence, a certain uneasiness. Or perhaps it was only Armand's feeling.

"I thought, my brother, that it was only words thrown into the air by some warlike parliamentarians, as it is so often heard. Finally, you will not contradict me when I say that we have been talking about freeing Alsace and Lorraine for forty years already. And when our father came back from the front, he told us how stupid we had been to fall for Bismarck's trick, that we would get back to it. I believed him. Although I thought that no one seriously thought of declaring war. But we are here. And I do not want you to leave.  
\- Are you joking?" This is my job! I have to go to war!  
\- You are an officer.  
\- What does that change?"  
\- You will be a target of choice. Philippe, you have served the flag enough. Discharge yourself honorably, have mercy!  
\- Perhaps do you think I like to kill and die?" You have too artistic a mind to understand it. I have made you read, when you were a child, the writings of the philosophers of Antiquity, and not a single one doubted the utility of defending his country. To be a soldier is not to hate one's neighbor, but to love one's country. You are young and naive, Armand, that is why you are a musician and not a soldier, you look like an angel and you always have your mind elsewhere; You understand the young dancers much better than you understand me, but I still love you a lot."

Armand did not try to convince his brother. An officer, in its meaning, is a stubborn man. There are events that are done by the force of fate and that even the best orator can not prevent.

"It is true, Lieutenant, that you are far too serious. I sincerely think that you would look much more elegant if you slipped the stem of a flower into the pocket of your jacket.  
\- What nonsense. Have you ever heard that phrase from Clemenceau? _War is far too serious to be entrusted to the military._ "


	2. Chapter 1

For an active army officer who had raised his little brother with humanism and love of peace, there was something unthinkable: general mobilization. Who, in France, thought that their fathers, brothers, and sons would be snatched from them in a few hours? Because the war was too serious for the military, it was preferred to send civilians there.

Armand was the sweetest pacifist, but like every Frenchman on this August day, he was resigned to the duty that was to be done. On the dock of the train station, he had huddled up against a lieutenant in full uniform, whom he adored more than anything, and from whom he was to separate at once. Philippe had ruffled the blond hair of the man who was much smaller than himself, had laid a kiss on his forehead, and had smiled with the tenderest affection: "All will be well, my dear bleuet. We'll be back for Christmas. You will not forget, young man, to send me letters often and tell me what drawings and music sheets you will have created thanks to the inspiration of the battles."

And this is how this twenty-two-year-old man, who had escaped military service by mischief, found himself climbing the steps of a steam train from another age, on which someone had readily engraved or written in chalk phrases that promised to go straight to Berlin. Armand had no desire to go to Berlin. His cramped tie prevented him from breathing; or was it anxiety?

While he was still in his civilian clothes - the perfect example of the young bourgeois, with his hat - he sometimes saw, walking in the corridors of the train, soldiers in red and blue uniforms - Armand remembered that his father had almost the same - which reminded him, every second, of his destination. No one in those wagons knew where they were heading,  they only barely knew that it was towards the Belgian frontier; but all knew that they were going to _war_.

Everything contrasted in Armand. His blond hair and blue eyes did not fit in with his black suit, like a day of mourning. He was melancholic. Hardly had he had time to sit in the most deserted wagon that the train had already moved with great noise and steam, leaving behind it the city which he knew by heart to lead him to lands he did not know. Philip, him, would do well. He had traveled all over France, he was intelligent, he was experienced, there was nothing he did not already know.

This face with a juvenile thin mustache and a spark of innocence in the gaze, it is called the face of the _bleuet_. It is the young soldier who, still cradled with illusions, leaves one day in August 1914 with a flower on his rifle - sometimes both. It is the silent boy who, huddled in the back of a seat, makes his pencil scraping the paper, inspired by the paintings of Detaille. For he still imagines - what is wrong with that? - that one makes war with horses and honor.

Scarcely had he finished a brief sketch of one of the soldiers than he had seen, that Armand was interrupted by the sound of studded boots. In front of him sat a corporal with a rough face and a rural accent, as it was so often heard in France; at the number on his collar, Lacroix recognized that he was from the one hundred and seventy-third infantry regiment. It was not a Parisian regiment. The old briscard apologized: he was away from home when the bells of war rang.

"How old are you ?  
\- I am twenty-two years old, _mon caporal_."  
\- Corporal alone, that will do," the soldier objected, laughing, "but have you escaped military service?"  
\- Yes, _Corporal alone._ I pretended that I had a severely handicapping eye disease.  
\- So what? You better pretend that again.  
\- Why? I am ashamed of what I did two years ago. This time I will not flee, or I will shame my family too. It is a matter of duty, you understand...  
\- You see, I don't understand. You're a bloody fellow. But honor is a great word. Your family won't care about honor, when they will see you returning in several pieces... or not returning at all.  
\- Are you trying to scare me?!"

Lacroix had indeed gathered his bravery. But when he had half risen and confronted the hazel eyes of the other man, he knew that he had to show discipline and simply sat down again, regretting immediately, from the height of his inexperience, to have contradicted the unknown soldier with the Mediterranean accent.

"You young men are all the same. You speak of patriotism, of duty to your country, that you would lose your lives for the tricolor flag. You have handled wooden rifles as early as primary school age. Showing you colorful images, you were told: this is war. You have believed the black hussars of the Republic. What is the use of youth? Do you know what youth is like? These are the years when you have no other worry than to look handsome in your well-trimmed clothes. And you are a handsome young man; and I say you have nothing to do here. You should tip your hat when crossing by a young girl whom you find ravishing; you should have fun in the beautiful Parisian districts; you should study for hours and then reward your work by gifting yourself a box of chocolates in Montmartre. But with your evasive gaze, your pencil between your fingers, you think you need a Lebel in your hands! So I have nothing further to add. There's no point in getting tired of convincing the fiery like you. _Dulce and decorum_ is your motto. But do not pretend, if we come to meet again, that I have not warned you. For the few months you will spend at the frontline, you will grow old of so many years that you will not recognize yourself any more. You can only catch wrinkles, young man, when you suddenly allow yourself, in sight and in mass, to kill! Yet I believe you are ready to do this and face the Prussians; but soon you will realize that one does not kill on only one side, and that it is better not to make friendships with anyone in your battalion. You do not yet know what life is; well, you wanted it; you will not have an opportunity to know it now. "

Lacroix did not know how to react to this inflamed speech of a man with so impersonal a gaze. The veteran rose soon, followed by Lacroix, who grabbed his gray-blue coat with haste; the corporal pulled the fabric out of the young man's fingers.

"Summer, my boy, is a bad season to take the key to the fields of honor."

The bearded man had gone. Among all these rich and well-dressed Parisians he looked like a specter, a phantom of the uncivilized lands, who, instead of going to the theater on Sundays, conducted his goats and cultivated his chestnut trees. Lacroix watched him go, dazed. He could see, on the edge of the soldier's mantle, traces of mud rubbed and cleaned in vain, discolored cloth or stains from which he did not want to know the provenance.

Armand had remained silent for minutes which seemed to him hours. He listened to the confused and distant noise of the discussions, the footsteps of the future soldiers in the train, the rattling of the wheels against the rails. Placing his eyes on the sketch he had hardly begun, he grabbed his pencil again and decided to blacken the paper with a brief sketch of the sharp, dark eyes that had fixed him some time before. As if he felt the need to remember that rough and characteristic face, when he knew full well that he was never going to see him again.

The young man, after this drawing session, was alerted by the strange appearance of an individual who was crossing the wagon with slow steps. He was an elderly man dressed in a cassock but wearing an infantry cap and a roughly stitched cross in place of the regimental number. He had recognized the military chaplain who would accompany the Parisian battalions to the front.

A thought came to Lacroix. Exodus 20:13. Thou shalt not kill.  
At this precise moment, the presence of a priest became quite absurd in his eyes, and he mocked silently, his eyes still fixated on his sketchbook, the old man with the rosary. Why would he go to confession to a priest who has chosen to mingle with what was the most terrible offense to the Ten Commandments?

Lacroix had lost his thoughts for a moment, and then had tackled the task of finishing that drawing the uniform of the _vision_  of earlier. The time had passed quickly, however, and the train stopped short in a jolt, surprising the artist who dropped his pencil to the ground. Blushing at his awkwardness, he stood up and placed his top hat on the top of his head. He had been walled up in a profound silence for several hours, and he got off the train in a row with hundreds of strangers whose daily he would share for the duration of the war, which he thought was to last only a few months.

An officer at the exit of the train seemed to stare at him cynically, from head to foot, before confronting Lacroix's shy gaze. This silent exchange promised to the young man the military discipline he feared; it would force him to do many things that he did not want to do except by duty and out of respect for his brother.

In front of him, an immense crowd. Civilian suits mingled with French uniforms and garance red trousers which, as only advantage, skilfully concealed red spots on the fabric. On each side, officers rose their sabers and sometimes yelled frenetically at recruits who were late in dressing up. A great hubbub entwined with patriotic songs and promises of hunting the _Boches_ \- the storm before glory.

Intimidated but no less courageous, Lacroix mingled with the crowd inside the barracks. There were a thousand formalities to be made; embarrassing medical examinations, military booklets to be completed. But what struck his memory the most was the last interview before the delivery of his issued uniform.

"Lacroix, you are literate and intelligent. Do you want to escape from the frontline? I can assign you, if you wish, to the military censorship of the postal services.  
\- Sorry ? I'd rather go to the front, sir.  
\- So be it. You will be a second class soldier in the twenty-fourth infantry regiment."

He did not want, that man with fine spirit, to participate in the express censorship of the letters of his comrades and to have the impression of being from the government; he knew very well that from all times of war, they were shamelessly lying to both soldiers and civilians, and he did not want to take part in such a thing. On his way to the non-commissioned officer who was handing him the uniform he was about to put on, Armand saw in his memory the piercing look of the Corsican veteran.  
Soon he thought no more of it and would never ever think more of it. He preferred, the innocent boy, to replace this terrible face by the infinitely more gentle face of his brother in his memory.

Then there was nothing left to do but to walk back to the train. Lacroix wondered if he did not look more ridiculous in his new uniform than in the top hat he had left where he had abandoned his civilian life.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'bleuet' has several meanings.  
> 1\. It is a flower; a cornflower, in fact.  
> 2\. Its name has 'blue' in it, and it has been used towards the end of the war by WW1 veterans to nickname young soldiers who had just arrived in the frontline, whose uniforms were a perfect blue in contrast with the muddy uniforms of the 'Poilus'.  
> 3\. At the end of WW1, it has become the national flower of remembrance; it is the French equivalent of the poppy.
> 
> 'With a flower on his rifle' - it is a literal translation of 'la fleur au fusil' which is a French idiom referencing to how confident and naive were the French soldiers on their departure, thinking they would be back with a victory for Christmas.
> 
> 'Briscard' - a veteran. The 'brisques' were symbols on the upper sleeve that showed how many years the soldier had been in duty - a 'briscard' is someone who has a lot of 'brisques'.
> 
> 'The black hussars of the Republic' - primary school teachers.
> 
> 'A Lebel' - the Lebel M1886 rifle. Standard issue French firearm at the time of WW1.
> 
> 'To take the key to the fields of honor" - it's a pun between two French idioms. To take the key of the fields: to flee. To fall on the field of honor: to die for one's country.
> 
> 'Boches' - a pejorative nickname for the Germans.

**Author's Note:**

> Jean Jaurès (1859-1914) was a socialist politician known for his pacifist views and his strong opposition to the outburst of World War I. Because of his opinions, he was assassinated one month before the beginning of the war by Raoul Villain.
> 
> Alsace-Lorraine is a French region which shares a frontier with Germany. It was lost to Prussia in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870, and such a defeat remained on every Frenchman's mind until 1914 when a strongly vengeful spirit was set. France declared war on Germany, on 1870, because of a political 'trick' made by Chancellor Otto von Bismarck.
> 
> Georges Clemenceau (1841-1929) was the President of the French Council from 1917 to 1920. With a successful military career, he will be nicknamed 'Père La Victoire' (Father Victory) after the armistice of 1918.


End file.
